I can listen to it over and over again, and it builds the same, just like impending death. I imagine they’d play it as they were walking me to the guillotine, Delacroix can record me in paint just like the rest of the revolutionary executions. I think they sing without voices and extend black wings at my throat, those violins. I hum and vibrate through my lungs and the heart of me knows torment and terror in the height of descending dark ecstasy. An orgasm of something wholly incomprehensible, shaking the marrow from bones, scouring through my tumultuous soul. Raking clawed fingers over exposed pink flesh, private parts of sexual realization. This is only a symphony, but it has culminated in the fabric of my stomach, causing a pit to develop and grow, like an itching thought you cannot scratch through thick wool mind tricks. I suck like a tick on its fat body and the fullness of me is all boiling blood of another. This ascension into something ethereal is not so surprising as it is hard to relay. How could they know the completion of identity, foreboding, and delight, through one song. One opus. As I know it.